Weaving the Wind
by Zus
Summary: A Spike character study--non-shippy


Title: Weaving the Wind  
  
Disclaimer: Nope, don't own a thing. Wait, I'll claim Pearl and Leona; they belong to me  
  
Archiving: Be my guest, but e-mail me at sgarriszus@yahoo.com to let me know where it's showing up.  
  
At 5:00 that evening, the Magic Box was quiet. Anya had turned the sign on the front door around to say "closed," and she and Xander had gone home for the night, with a resounding "Don't forget to lock up" from Anya. Buffy had wandered back to the training room, but there were no sounds of fist hitting bag, just quiet. Dawn sat at the research table reading from a book that said U.S. History on the cover. At least she was making the pretense of reading. Willow and Tara studied, as well, from various notes and texts scattered about on the table. Spike observed each of them casually, in turn, and then, careful not to attract attention, he reached for the newspaper that Buffy had left on the table, folded to the "Help Wanted" section. He rustled the pages a bit to find the section which interested him, and that small sound earned him a stern look from Willow.  
  
Even his thoughts seemed loud in the quiet of the room. Bugger this...Halloween...won't be many in the obits today. Who was it exactly who made up the rule about the bad guys staying in on Halloween? And the number of dearly departeds was sparse for Sunnydale. Six names in all. All people who had not been cut down in the prime of their lives. All over 65. He read each one, studying the information carefully.  
  
"Well, then..." The three girls all looked up sharply. "Sun's down, guess I'll be off..."  
  
"Spike, it's Halloween...don't you want to come over for cider and pumpkin-shaped cookies?" Dawn's eyes were pleading. It was as though both Summers' girls preferred his company these days to being alone with the witches.  
  
"Sorry 'bit. Like you said, it's Halloween. Guess I'll go raise a little hell."  
  
"Oh, sure, Mr. Big Bad-wannabe." Willow's voice grated on Spike's last nerve.  
  
"Right, then..." and Spike was gone before Dawn's face could do that big liquid eyes thing and change his mind.  
  
  
  
The sign outside read "Moriarty's Funeral Home." Spike was pretty sure this was the one. He walked into the quiet lobby and was greeted by a man wearing a nondescript suit and a practiced look of sympathy.  
  
"Are you here for Mr. Buchanan?" the man asked quietly.  
  
Spike nodded and was shown into a large room full of chairs upholstered in velvet. At one end of the room sat an open casket , which held, Spike assumed, the earthly remains of Mr. Paul Buchanan. There were a few flower arrangements bunched around the casket and others placed around the edges of the room. From the obituary, Spike knew that Paul Buchanan had been a mail carrier. For 30 years he had slogged through rain and glaring heat to make sure everyone got his or her bills and catalogs and love letters, and this was how it ended. This was how it always ended, at least for the lucky ones. Someone stood near the casket and cried softly.  
  
Old enough to be his wife I guess, but really, young looking enough to possibly be his daughter instead, Spike thought as he searched the rows of seats. And then he saw them. He knew he had chosen well. After nearly two years, he had these two figured out. They sat near the back as usual, with their heads leaning towards one another. He made his way to them, and Leona looked up as he sat down next to her.  
  
"William, how nice to see you, my boy." Next to her, Pearl nodded her greeting as well.  
  
"You know I can't stay away for long. I'd miss you two far too much" he whispered.  
  
I was just starting to tell Pearl about Paul Buchanan."  
  
I didn't miss it then? Good."  
  
"Paul Buchanan was such a handsome lad in his youth" Leona began. "All the girls were in love with Paul, they were. He had the bluest eyes and the prettiest red hair. Wasted on a man, it was. Every girl in the neighborhood would have left her boyfriend or even her husband to be with Paul." At this, Pearl sighed dramatically. "Pearl please," Leona admonished. "Let me finish. Anyway, Paul was stubborn. Only wanted Mary Louise, don't ya know. She with her Catholic schoolgirl uniform and her braids. Much too young for him they all said-but Lord, he loved her. Her daddy was against it, of course. Told Paul to get away from his daughter and stay away, but one night, when there was no moon and the stars were all covered by clouds, Paul put a ladder up to the side of Mary Louise's house and spirited her away. They ran away laughing and stopping now and again to kiss. Mary Louise would say 'hurry Paul, he'll catch us, hurry' and they would run again. But it wouldn't be long before Paul would stop them again for more sweet as honey kisses. They were married that night and stayed that way for 35 years. I guess Paul had that last laugh on that ogre of a daddy, that's what I say. A beautiful couple if ever there was one."  
  
Not even an hour later, Spike walked Pearl and Leona to the bus stop. It was starting to drizzle cold rain. He teased them as they walked along. "So, ladies, I hope you both have found some handsome bloke since I saw you last. Is he waiting at home to warm your feet and bring you tea?"  
  
"Oh, William, you bad boy." Pearl blushed to the roots of her silvery white hair.  
  
"Sure and there's always Horatio," Leona laughed.  
  
"Horatio? Have you two been holding out on me?"  
  
"Horatio is our tabby cat. Big as a house." Pearl whispered in Spike's general direction.  
  
The two climbed wearily up the steps of the bus and found seats. Leona grinned out at Spike from the window and gave a little wave as the bus pulled away.  
  
Nearly a week had passed and Spike now stood on the sidewalk outside of Campbell's Funeral Parlor on Highland Avenue. He ground out his cigarette and made his way up the steps to the double doors. A clone of the man from Moriarty's opened the door and ushered him into a room that could have been a double from the week before. He took his usual seat next to Leona.  
  
"Haven't seen you for a few days William. Have you been okay?" Leona asked in a whisper.  
  
"I'm fine luv. Just puttin' in a little overtime."  
  
"Leona-tell us about Abigail," Pearl urged.  
  
"Well, Abigail used to be a dancer don't ya know. Even when she was a little girl, all the grownups would say 'she has dancer's legs.' She and her husband...what was his name, Pearl dear?"  
  
Pearl consulted the tiny card with the picture of Jesus on one side and a brief bit about the deceased on the other. "John, his name was John, Leona."  
  
"She and her husband, John, went to every dance they could find and would dance until the cows came home. We were all so jealous. They looked as though they had danced together in another life to be so good at it now. One time they drove all the way to Oxnard for a dance contest. In a ballroom it was. Oh, and the whole place was decorated to look like a fairy tale, with candles and crystal. Abigail had a special dress made. Blue and silver all over. And she had shoes dyed to match the dress, just like a professional. They danced the night away wearing pieces of paper with the number 7 pinned to their backs. A man would come out on the polished dance floor every once in a while and touch a couple as they danced. That couple would leave, rejected and dejected they were. Finally, everyone was gone from the fairy dance floor except for Abigail and John and they swirled and dipped their way across the floor alone and beautiful. Never was there a more magical couple in a more beautiful place on a better night."  
  
"Oh my," Pearl whispered.  
  
"Beautiful story luv," Spike added.  
  
"Not a story ducks-her life, her life."  
  
  
  
One night, eight days later, Spike found himself back at Campbells. This time the wake was for a 48-year-old librarian named Mathilda Witte. The obituary said she had no husband or children. The family was asking that people donate to the charity of their choice instead of sending flowers. There were no more than a dozen people sitting in the tiny, hard chairs, but Pearl and Leona were there, as he knew they would be.  
  
"Ladies," he said. "Lovely evening for a wake, don't ya think?" He sat next to Leona as always. Pearl sat forward a bit and nodded at him, but Leona just stared straight ahead, as though already planning the story. Twenty minutes later, Spike and Pearl were sitting quietly, still waiting for Leona to begin.  
  
"Leona...Leona" Pearl tapped gently on Leona's folded hands to get her attention. "Leona, tell us about Mathilda."  
  
"Yes luv, what's her story?" Spike added.  
  
"I...I...don't know anyone named Mathilda," Leona said haltingly.  
  
"Sure you do, luv. She's a librarian." Spike gently prodded.  
  
"You...will you do it this time Pearl?...I don't...I can't..."  
  
"Um. Okay. Hmmm. Well, Mathilda was the star of her high school musical. She loved to sing, and when the time came for auditions she froze. But the director, he knew she could sing, so he let her try again, and she got the part, and she sang really well, and everyone applauded her at the end."  
  
"Come on," Spike said as he stood. "Let me get you girls to the bus."  
  
  
  
Three weeks later, Spike sat on the back porch steps of the Summers' house. A discarded newspaper lay at his feet. He had smoked nearly half a pack of cigarettes while he'd sat there studying the obituaries.  
  
Buffy walked up behind him and touched him on the shoulder, pulling him from his thoughts. "Spike. Going patrolling. Wanna come?"  
  
"Not tonight, gotta see an old friend." And he stood and walked off alone down the street.  
  
It was Moriarty's again. He slipped into his seat. Pearl slipped her tiny, lined hand into his.  
  
"I'm sorry darlin,'" he said, barely making any sound at all.  
  
"I know."  
  
They sat silently for a while and then Spike began. "Leona Brooks," he said. "She was a spy during the great war. Did you know that luv? A regular Mata Hari she was. Her beauty was legendary. She could drive a man crazy with one look and a wiggle of her gorgeous hips. She always had the most beautiful clothes-real silk stockings and satin and feathers- mostly gifts from men, don't you know? Every man who met her wanted her, but she was a true patriot was Leona. She practically won the war single- handed like..."  
  
As Spike talked, Pearl slowly lay her head on his shoulder. When he looked down at her, he could see slow tears working their way down her lined cheeks.  
  
"William," she whispered.  
  
"Yes, luv."  
  
"Some day, will you tell my story too?"  
  
"Of course." 


End file.
